Slowly, Finch entered, sighting along the gun’s barrel. Still felt like ice water ran through his veins. Saw even the darkness in preternatural detail.

Stood to the left of the window. In the shadow of bookcases. Listening. Heard someone breathing in the next room. Someone moving around. What if it is Sintra?

Decided to wait there. Let whoever it was come out into the living room. Now, finally, his heart pounded. Images of mistakes flashed through his head. Of Sintra with a bullet hole through her forehead. Or Wyte.

The bedroom door opened. Out came a shadow. Finch couldn’t see the face. Couldn’t see a weapon, either.

“I’ve got a gun. Stay where you are, or I’ll shoot,” Finch said.

The shadow stopped, quick glance toward him. Then ran for the window.

The window?

Already moving forward, Finch squeezed the trigger. The roar of the Lewden Special. A thick splintering sound from the bookcase opposite. He’d missed.

The figure leapt. Closing the distance, Finch leapt with him. A circle of green light had appeared. Rimmed with fiery gold. Shot through the middle with purest black. The figure went through the circle—and Finch went too, slamming into the shadow’s back. Grabbing hold of the shoulders. Gun still in his hand.

The blackness extended. Past the floor.

Gasped, screamed. Overcome by the sense of falling. Held on to the figure, which was trying to throw him off. Finch’s face felt like it was burning. The blackness was absolute.

Falling into the throat of a skery. Falling into nothing. Falling through the window. To their deaths. His stomach kept dropping and dropping. He kept screaming and screaming.

And still they fell.

Nothing lost.

All lost.

THURSDAY

I: Why do you hate Partials?

F: I don’t hate them.

I: We all have a job to do.

F: I don’t like cameras.

I: Where did you go during the party?

F: Nowhere. Home. I went home.

I: You were seen on the street after curfew. By a Partial.

F: It was someone else. No. No. Please. Don’t! [sounds of weeping] I didn’t go anywhere. I don’t remember.

I: Who was it? Stark? The Lady in Blue? Bliss? Someone else?

F: All of them. None of them. Doesn’t matter what answer I give. Your answer is always the fucking same.

I: I can make you remember.

1

Light. Blinding him. They both fell heavy and sprawling across some unforgiving surface. Gun skittered out of his hand. A shooting pain in his left leg, ribs. Cried out. Lost his grip on the man’s shoulders. Every scrap of skin crawled. As if he’d passed through a cloud of hornets. Spasmed for a moment, his muscles not obeying his commands. Brain on fire. Worse than the skery. Came to rest gasping. Rough stones with something soft between them. An intense clapping sound rose up. Faded.